


When Winter Thaws

by ladydirewolf1



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-07-19 13:11:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7362685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydirewolf1/pseuds/ladydirewolf1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been six years since the war for the dawn, and winter is finally beginning to thaw. But for some, the war is far from over. In a realm ruled by dragons, secrets threaten to break the very peace they fought for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When Winter Thaws: Sneak Peak

           “Lose something?”

            He threw back the glass that slid towards him. “Someone.” The ale dribbled down his chin and into his scraggily beard. He didn’t bother to wipe it away.

            The man sighed. “You loved her.” It wasn’t a question. When he ignored it, the man pushed another glass across the table. “What happened?”

            “What always happens.”

            “You lost her in the war?”

            He nodded.

            “That was six years ago. The dragons rule the realm now; the kingdoms are at peace.”

            He snorted at that, the alcohol burning his throat. “We’re always at war, and we’re always losing. Anyone who thinks otherwise is a fool.” The ale slid down without question, and he grimaced.

            The man simply shrugged. “Is she still alive?”

            “Yes.” _But am I?_ His throat stung, his head hurt, and the burns across his back and neck itched. Supposedly, his heart still beat.

            “Gonna find her?” The man looked up from wiping a grimy glass.

            He didn’t answer, but his eyes drifted to the window across from him. 

            With a sad, weary smile the man set down his cloth and poured two more drinks. “To lost loves,” he said, holding up a glass.

            “To lost wars.”

_To her._

 


	2. Chapter Two

_Jaime,_

_I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t mean to fall in love with you, to leave you for my husband’s war, to eventually do something so unspeakable that I cannot even write it down. As a child I thought my life would be a song, and even through the darkest days a happy ending with you, only you, flickered through._

_But because of me, because of what I did, that light is gone. You’re gone. And the sun shall never shine again._

_I’m sorry, my love. I’m sorry._

The last words blurred together, and Sansa shut her eyes to make it stop. The paper was soft to her touch, and its corners seemed to crumble in her hand. How long had it been since she wrote the letter? How long since she snuck down to Winterfell’s crypts and placed the paper in her aunt’s cold, lifeless hand? It had seemed fitting at the time, to hide the unsent letter there. Lady Lyanna had been a girl swept into the wars of men, a girl stolen for her beauty and her youth, only to be left alone in the darkness, forever to gaze upon the Kings of Winter. Sansa had not died in the war, not truly. But a part of her did—the part that had smiled when the soft grey fur of a direwolf tickled her chin, the part that had laughed when strong arms spun her through the air beneath a sun-filled olive grove.

Some days those memories swam forward, and Sansa was reminded of the life she’d once been promised. With winter finally beginning to thaw, she saw her past everywhere she went—in the shoots of grass poking through the melting ice, in the howl of White Wind as the dog chased a hare across the yard. Scenes of Winterfell and Dorne flitted before her eyes, sun-filled and cheerful, but neither glimpses of her childhood nor the early days of her marriage could halt the chill within her heart.

Sansa folded the letter back into her aunt’s stone palm, then turned towards the light streaming from the crypt’s entryway. _The parchment will not last a year_ , she thought as she made her way up the stony stairs. _Perhaps it is for the best…Oberyn does not like me to venture down here by myself._ Soon the letter would crumble into dust, and all evidence of what she’d done six years ago would disappear.

She emerged above ground, and the evening’s fading light greeted her. A pale moon hung against the violet sky, and Sansa let its weak glow guide her back towards Winterfell’s main keep. Guards watched from atop the high walls, but none bothered to ask why the Lady of Winterfell wandered alone.

When Oberyn had first been named Lord of Winterfell until her brother Rickon came of age, the guards fretted constantly over where Eddard Stark’s daughter came and went. Now, only silence greeted her as she swept past. The few men that remained from her childhood regarded her with sad but kind eyes, perhaps wondering where their late lord’s daughter had gone. _I went inside myself,_ she often wanted to say when those pursed lips and crinkled eyes gazed upon her. _Where it’s cold and dark, where no light could ever reach again._ The little auburn-haired child with a head full of songs had died long ago.

The castle’s doors swung open as she passed beneath the arches, and warmth flooded her pale face. Braziers sat against the walls, and for a moment Sansa paused at one, peeling off her leather gloves and warming her hands against the flames. Oberyn kept the castle hotter than her father had, and Sansa knew that soon she’d be sweating and complaining of the heat. But for now, with her cheeks flushed with cold and a tingling in her toes, Sansa was grateful for the warmth.

“But I don’t _want_ to!”

Sansa turned at the shrill voice, pulling her hands away from the fire. A child ran through the shadowed hall leading towards the entryway, a lady’s maid hot at her heels. Even in the dark, Sansa could see her dark curls swing loose and wild and messy with sticks and leaves.

“Lady Martell will hear of this!” the girl barked from behind, not yet noticing Sansa standing right there.

The dark-haired child spun away from the maid’s outstretched hand, laughing as she did so. “You can’t make _me_ take a bath,” she retorted with a confidence far beyond her seven years. “Rickon says so—he says a great lady may do as she pleases, and I don’t please one bit to—”

“ _Ceransa_ ,” said Sansa firmly as the girl and her maid emerged from the hallway. The child’s face lit up when she saw her, emerald eyes flashing in the brazier’s glow. For a moment it was another’s eyes she gazed into, and for a moment Sansa’s heart squeezed so tightly she thought it might burst.

“Tell her, Lady Sansa, tell her she can’t make me!”

The tightness flew away, and only a little girl gazed up at her. Painting a thin smile on her lips, Sansa crouched down and surveyed the damage. Her knotted hair was even worse than she first imagined, and muddy paw-prints had somehow found their way onto her woolen skirt. _White Wind’s doing, to be sure._ Her eyes fell to the hem, where an even larger print had found its mark. _And Shaggy Dog’s too._ With her thumb, Sansa brushed at a streak of dirt on the girl’s nose. “Did Rickon also tell that a great lady plays with direwolves and dogs all day long? Because I’m sure I haven’t heard that one before.”

Ceransa stuck out her bottom lip and stared at the ground. “No,” she said with a sigh.

Sansa smiled and tweaked the girl’s nose. “Run along then,” she said as she straightened, pushing Ceransa gently towards her lady’s maid. “And don’t cause any more trouble, or your uncle will be sure to hear of it.”

The maid gave her a thankful look and led the little girl away by the hand. As they went, Sansa shook her head with a smile. _She’s grown to be just as willful as her mother, and just as beautiful too._ Her love of being lady-like almost always was enough to sway her from her wilder tendencies, though.

 _I’ll have to speak to Rickon again about her_ , she thought as Sansa finally began the decent to her bedchamber. _Again._ As a boy of five-and-ten, Rickon remained every bit as wild as the child she’d known so long ago. He was soon to be Lord of Winterfell though, and soon she and Oberyn would leave him for Dorne. _It is past time he spends his days learning how to rule, not how to play in the Godswood with little girls and animals who know no better. Perhaps his bride can knock some sense into him…though knowing Lyanna Mormont, that may do more harm than good._ The wedding would not be for some time though, at least not until the snow began to thaw in earnest, and for that Sansa was grateful.

As she climbed the stone steps, Sansa’s mind drifted to that day in mind, when they’d journey down to White Harbor and board a ship towards Sunspear. Six years ago a child had stepped onto a deck with a stranger as a husband and set sail to a foreign land. Now a woman grown and wed for many a year would do the same. Red sand and burning skies awaited her, and after spending so much time in the North, Sansa feared the land would be just as strange as when she’d first stepped on it. Dorne was their home, Oberyn often said as he frowned at the snow piling atop the walls, or at the icicles sparkling in the grey, frosted dawn. But Sansa wasn’t as sure.

She found Oberyn in bed, bare to the waist up despite the ever-lingering chill that haunted the sprawling keep. He had a stack of letters strewn out atop the furs, and as she entered his eyes lifted from the parchment in his hand.

“Don’t get up,” said Sansa lightly as she slipped inside. She made her way to the vanity to untangle her hair from its braid. A pale woman gazed back, thin fingers moving deftly through the auburn curls that now hung to her waist. A year or two ago she’d wanted to cut it, but when she’d told Oberyn, a grunt of displeasure had come in reply. Even after all this time, even after all they’d been through, he wanted the same flaming-haired girl by his side. He wanted youth and beauty, even as streaks of silver had found his own jet-black mane. And she didn’t mind so much—Winterfell was cold, and she was glad of the extra warmth.

“What do you have there?” she asked. With her curls now tumbling loose down her back, Sansa slipped off her woolen dress and climbed into bed.

“Well,” he said, tossing the letter in his hand aside and picking up a new one, “It appears every lord in the north wouldn’t dream of missing your brother’s wedding. The king and queen too—apparently the whole bloody royal party is making its way down.”

She smiled at that—at the thought of the wedding and her husband’s slightly cynical tone alike. “The realm needs something to find joy in, I suppose. Perhaps it is what we need, with winter finally beginning to thaw.”

He held back a snort. “And I’m sure we’ll find it with every bloody northman and dragon crammed into the castle. The only good to come of this will be us finally returning home.” Oberyn looked up from his letter and reached out to grasp her hand. He gave it a squeeze.

Sansa returned it—there was no use arguing to stay. Oberyn hated Winterfell as much as he loved Dorne. He would go, and she would go with him.

With a sigh, Sansa released his hand and relaxed back into the furs. She stayed like that for a while, just listening to the soft rustle of parchment, the steady breaths of the man beside her, the faint howl of wind as darkness set into the world outside.

“Six years,” she whispered suddenly, when the sounds of night grew too loud, too pressing. Sansa waited for Oberyn to reply, but instead the silence only grew heavier. He was waiting for her to speak—and what could she say? Sansa knew Oberyn better than anyone—she knew the way his eyes lit up before a smirk, the way a murmured word would be enough to soothe his anger, the way he liked his wine, his bed, his _wife_ —and yet she could not answer him. _Six years since he died_ , she wanted to say. _Six years since I loved._

Instead she said nothing, and a silence only known between two people so intimate and yet so alone stretched, taunt and wavering, over the night.

 _My life is built on silences and lies,_ Sansa thought as she rolled to her side. _Six years of them._ Eventually she felt Oberyn’s arms wrap around her, felt his bare chest press against her back. Her eyes squeezed shut, and warmth flooded everywhere but her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to let everyone know that I just started my freshman year of college, and unfortunately for now, this fic is going to be on hiatus until I get settled in. As always I love to hear from my readers, and I will continue to check and reply to comments.


	3. Chapter Three

            As Jaime’s head grew lighter, the sky grew darker. From tavern to tavern he stumbled, passing Braavosi sellswords and sailors, foreign merchants and drunken commoners. As he pushed past a group crowded around a theater’s entrance, Jaime’s bloodshot eyes fell upon a slim shadow leaning up against a crumbling wall. In the dusky light, only pale, blue-grey eyes broke through, piercing the darkness with their unwavering stare. Hair prickled along Jaime’s arms—there was something familiar about those eyes, something cold and sad and not unlike the eyes he’d gazed into long ago. _To her,_ he had said not more than an hour ago, throwing back ale with that young innkeep across the grimy bar. _And now I see her everywhere._ Another shiver went down his spine, and this time Jaime scowled.

            “What?” he growled at the shadowed form. “What do you want?”

            A man crossed before him, and when he was gone, the eyes had melted back into the shadows once more.

            With a lingering look at the wall, Jaime shouldered his pack and tucked his cloak beneath one arm, turning to resume his walk up the street. Golden lights flickered from the shops and taverns, and life danced all around. Braavos breathed life into a land of stone and salt, and for that Jaime was grateful—some of the places he’d been in the last six years had been just sand and endless grass, without a person to be seen for miles but the men he journeyed with.

He remembered times when all they had to drink was curdled milk or watered-down wine left over from the last city they’d passed through. Sometimes the women of a village would offer them drinks, and in thanks the other men would take them, their gold, and lives. After the first time his company did that, nothing could replace the sour taste in his mouth. The life of a sellsword had been a far cry from the tales he’d heard as a boy, and Jaime had gladly fled to Braavos when he’d refused to join in their games or raids one too many times. At least in Braavos the the only price he had to pay for a drink was one slid across a grimy bar in the late hours of the night.

Now he did the same, and as Jaime waited for his drink his eyes wandered around the tavern. As he had hoped, the place was mostly empty, with a pair of drunk sailors slurring in one corner, a man nursing a mug by a dying fire, and—

Jaime straightened in his seat by the counter, and his eyes narrowed in on the figure standing just inside the tavern’s door. He could now make out a slim frame of a woman, though a cloak hung long and loose to hide all but her eyes. Hair prickled again down Jaime’s arm, and when the barman turned back around with his drink, Jaime asked in a low voice, “You know who that is?”

The man’s brows furrowed for a second, receding back into his balding head. “Girl in the back?”

Jaime chanced another look. Now the girl was pretending to study a fading parchment nailed to the wall. He nodded.

“Never seen her, but then again, you get all types around here.” His eyes traveled down her cloak. “Why, you lookin’ for her or something?”

Jaime shook his head and took a swallow with a grimace. The barman shrugged and went back to pouring drinks for the now sloppily singing sailors, while Jaime brooded in silence. There had definitely been _something_ about those eyes, and with the girl following him into the bar… _It can’t be her_ , he reasoned, staring absently at the wall before him. _You’re just drunk enough to see her here._ And even if she was the girl beneath the cloak, Jaime wasn’t sure he wanted to see her again. Not after what had happened…after what she did all those years ago. Just thinking about it brought a knife to his gut, twisting with anger, guilt, and sorrow.

            “Ser?” The was a tap on his shoulder, and Jaime started, drink sloshing over the side of his glass.

            Sputtering and cursing, Jaime whirled around to face the girl. Her hood had come down, and in an instant Jaime’s stomach plunged. There was no flaming hair, no milk-white skin, no pink-tinged cheeks. Just a dark-haired girl with a long, sharp face and cold grey eyes that had looked so blue before.

            Jaime frowned, throwing back the last of the ale. “You’ve been following me.”

            The girl’s eyes widened innocently. “Oh, pardon me, ser—”

            “I’m no ser,” he grunted. “Not anymore.”

            She continued on, and goosepimples prickled at the nape of his neck. “It’s just I noticed there’s a tear in your pack.” The girl pointed, and Jaime’s eyes followed.

            A small piece of felt beneath the worn leather was poking through, but that was all. Jaime scowled. “Is that it?” he asked, giving her a wary look. “If that’s all you have to say, then get lost, girl. I haven’t got time for you.” In another world, another life when a snow-white cloak swung from his shoulders, he wouldn’t have even needed a word to get rid of such a girl. But now…now he was no one.

            She blinked twice, then gave him an apologetic smile. Jaime almost felt bad for snapping at her, but with those piercing, familiar eyes…it was just too much, especially hours into his cups.

            “Excuse me then, ser. My mistake.” And with that, the girl turned on her heels and made her way to the door. Jaime’s eyes followed her until the fraying hem of her cloak flew behind the corner and out of sight.

            A chuckle came from further down the counter, and Jaime snapped at him too. “What?”

            He laughed again, wheezing into his cup. The stench of liquor whispered up as the man sucked in labored breaths. “You can never trust the pretty ones, _he he_ _he_. Lost all me gold to one like that.” He pointed vaguely to the bundle that was Jaime’s cloak, and Jaime cursed beneath his breath when he saw what was missing.

            Sprinting into the night with his pack thrown over one shoulder, Jaime’s eyes scanned frantically around the street. “Shit, shit, _shit_ ,” he cursed, earning a glare from across the alleyway. _It’s all I have—all I have of her—_

There was a tap on his shoulder, and in an instant Jaime whirled back around. His hand found her soft skin of her throat, and her back found the hard stones of the tavern.

            “You stole it,” he snarled, fingers pressing deeper into the white flesh. Fingers scrabbled at his hand, but even with just one he was stronger that the slip of a girl. “You fucking _stole_ it like some common gutter rat. Do you know what we do to thieves back home?” He gave her a shake. “ _Do you_?”  

            Her eyes widened, then a sharp pain erupted from between his legs. Jaime stumbled back, cursing. When he looked back up through watering eyes, he found her standing over him, hand outstretched.

            “Here. I was about to give it back before you attacked me.”

            And there it was, a mockingbird glinting beneath the flickering lights. Tarnished silver flashed in her palm before she let it fall at his feet. It _pinged_ against the cobblestones, spinning rapidly. In another instant, it gave one last, lazy spin and grew still against the stones.

            Jaime shook his head in bewilderment and picked it up. “You’re the worst thief I’ve come across,” he muttered, rising to his feet. He winced. “And I’ve met more than most.”

            “I couldn’t keep it.” Her eyes fell to her feet, locks of dark hair falling forward. “Not this…not when I was sure…”

            “You’ve seen this before?” He gave her a suspicious look and turned the pin over in his hand. The cold mockingbird pressed into his calloused palm. “Only a Westerosi would recognize this sigil…and only a high-born one at that. Besides, it has no meaning anymore. House Baelish is gone.” _At her hands. At her lovely, soft hands they stained with blood,_ he almost added.

            “It does to some… _did_ to some, I suppose. And let’s just say that after recognizing the pin, it wasn’t hard to recognize the Lannister who had it.”

            The name rung in Jaime’s ears. _Lannister, Lannister…are you that anymore? Were you ever?_ In his drunken state, the word morphed and muddled in his head. A pain sprung up behind his eyes, dull and aching. The girl before him became two, and Jaime forced himself to remain upright. He wouldn’t drop to his knees _again_ before the thief, or whatever she was.

            “What do you want, then, if not to steal from some drunkard?”

            Her eyes traveled up and down, taking in the scraggily beard, the ratty leather pack, the scar that stretched pink across his neck and further down his back. It was a sad look, a familiar look. One she had given before.

“I used to help broken men like you.”

            “Oh?”

            “They wanted to die.”

            Jaime let out a low laugh. “So you killed people?”

            She shook her head. “I gave the gift of death.”

            “And you think I want to die?” He snorted and his fingers tightened. The pin dug deeper into his skin.

            “Perhaps. But that’s not why I found you.” The girl took a breath and began to speak.  


	4. Chapter Four

“Hey!”

            Sansa rolled her eyes, and when she looked up from her needlework her lips pursed. “Honestly Rickon, if I didn’t know you were to be the Lord of Winterfell I’d think you some insufferable child.” At that the seamstress laughed, and Sansa gave her an apologetic look.

            “I still _am_ an insufferable child,” Rickon retorted hotly, trying to squirm away as the women stuck another pin into the doublet.

            “Oh I know,” Sansa muttered under her breath.

            With just a week until the wedding, the castle had been swept into a flurry of chaos. Lords, ladies, men-at-arms and servants alike had been arriving steadily for the past month, filling Winterfell and the surrounding towns to the brim. Only the royal party was yet to arrive. And unfortunately for her, the craziness of it all heightened her younger brother’s passion for mayhem. Just the other day Rickon set Shaggydog loose during Lord Willas’s welcoming, knocking the man to ground and inciting a wild purist of the lord’s finest hawk through the halls.

            The seamstress took a step back, admiring her handiwork with a pin still stuck in her mouth. “We’ll just take it in a bit here,” she tutted, pinching at the loose wool by Rickon’s waist. Even at six-and-ten, he remained small for his age—not that he didn’t make up for it in spirit. _Besides_ , Sansa thought, smiling as she continued on with her needlework, _it’s not as if the Lady Lyanna is some giant._ Though she was a few years older than Rickon, Lyanna Mormont was just a slip of a girl, with a willfulness that rivaled even her husband-to-be’s.

            “Princess? I need to fetch some more pins if you don’t mind. It seems that quite a few have somehow made themselves scarce,” she said, giving Rickon a weary look.

            Sansa nodded, carefully pulling through a stich. As she worked her hands fell into a rhythm—the very same one she’d learned as a child. Over the years, needlework had become her solace, allowing Sansa hours to herself. Often her mind wandered to the past, and when she finally put her work down or Oberyn finally called her to bed, it was scenes of her youth, of Dorne, of the great War for the Dawn that stared back at her in the shimmering silk.

            “Sansa?”

            “Mhm?” she replied, hand dipping high and low, pale gold thread sliding through the air.

            “ _Sansa_.”

            Her eyes snapped up to see Rickon gazing back at her, hands wringing, foot twitching. “What is it?”

            He looked almost abashed, if he could ever be so. A pinkness tinged his cheeks, and Rickon shyly looked at his feet. “What if…what if…”

            “You can tell me anything, Rickon. Even if I’m—even if I’m just your older sister.” _Even if I’m not Mother_ , she’d almost said. Though Rickon had been so young when it’d happened, just the mention of her could send him into a sullen rage for a week.

            “What if I’m not _good_ enough?” Rickon asked quietly, foot tracing a circle on the floorboards. “I’m not Father or Robb or even Jon…I’m just _me_. I was never meant to be the Lord of Winterfell. What if I can’t do it?”

            From where she stood, Sansa could see a glisten in his steel-colored eyes, and before he could stop her Sansa crossed the room, taking his hands in hers. “Then that is all we need, Rickon. That’s all Winterfell needs. You are the last child of Lord Eddard Stark that can do it. _Only you_ , do you hear?” She squeezed his fingers with a smile, then brushed away the lone tear rolling down across his cheek.

            He met her eyes with a slight, wavering smile. “I’m not the only one who could do it. You’re older and better at it than me.”

            “You know my place is with Prince Oberyn.”

            At that he dropped her hands, eyes rolling. “ _Prince_ Oberyn doesn’t need you—he doesn’t even deserve you. Besides,” he said, anger growing in his voice, “you didn’t want to marry him in the first place, and you don’t even have any children by him. All you’re doing is leaving me here _again_.”

            “You know that was never my choice,” Sansa replied shortly, crossing her arms before her chest. “I was a child when we left for King’s Landing, and I was still a child when the Lannisters married me off to him.”

            “That didn’t stop you from whining and begging Father to let you marry that prick Joffrey—”

            “Oh, _grow up_ , Rickon.”

            “ _You’re_ the one that left _me_ , and now you’re doing it again! At least Joffrey didn’t control everything you say and do.”

            Sansa felt as if she’d been slapped. “You think that’s what it was like?” she asked slowly, brows pulling together, head tilting to one side. “That I was whisked away to some fairy tale? That King’s Landing was like the court from songs, and Joffrey was my golden prince?” Incredulousness was building in her tone, and Sansa could feel her cheeks flaming with anger. “Do you even know what happened to me there?”

            “I—”

            “He _beat_ me, Rickon. He beat me and tortured me and stripped me naked before the court. If it wasn’t for Oberyn I would be dead or worse. If it wasn’t for him the North would still be in the hands of our enemies. So I am _so sorry_ if the choices I had _no control over_ have upset you.” Her last words came out in a flurry, harsh and angry and breathless.

            Rickon’s eyes dropped back to his feet, and his hands began to twist. Sansa steadied them with a touch as he spoke in a low voice. “I’m sorry, Sansa. I…I didn’t know. I should have asked you about it.”

            She sighed, and with her palm, Sansa smoothed the curls off his forehead. “I know,” she muttered reassuringly. “I know.” _And I shouldn’t have gotten so angry. Not with the wedding and me leaving and everything._

             Behind them, the door suddenly banged open. They broke apart, and Sansa turned to see the seamstress bustling in with a wicker basket in her arms. “So sorry it took so long,” she sang out cheerfully. “I was stopped by Lady Roslin askin’ about widening a bodice for that great belly of hers…now where were we?” She looked up, finally noticing that Sansa had risen from her seat.

            “Lord Rickon’s new doublet, I believe,” said Sansa with a smile. “We certainly can’t have him looking like _this_ on his wedding day.”

            “Aye, that we can’t have,” the woman agreed, giving him an appraising look. Her gaze then turned to Sansa, taking in her plain woolen dress. “And what about you, my princess? Will you be wanting a new gown?”

            “I fear it would just inconvenience you,” she said, trying to hide the twinge of sadness in her voice. “I would have no occasion to wear it after the wedding—not even the Princess of Dorne would dare wear wool so far south.”

            The seamstress shuffled over to where Sansa had been sitting. “Is that what you’re working on here, then? Some slip of silk for that Dornish sun?”

“Hmm?” Sansa turned, and when she saw a bolt of fear raced through her heart.

The woman’s hand was reaching for the pile of silk, but just before she could flip it over Sansa’s hand darted in, snatching the fabric away.

            “Oh that’s—that’s nothing,” she said hastily, folding it tightly to her chest. “Just—just something to keep me busy.” A blush had blossomed on her cheeks, and Sansa let her hair fall forward to try and hide it.

            The seamstress gave her a curious look, and Rickon a confused one. “I’ll let you get back to it then.” She turned to the young lord behind her. “And I’ll get back to _this_.”

            As the woman resumed poking and prodding her brother with pins, Sansa quietly slipped outside. With her heart still pounding in her ears, Sansa pressed herself against the cool stone wall, sliding down to meet the floor. The silvery silk in her hands fluttered open in her lap, and only then did Sansa truly breathe again.

            A wolf and lion stared back at her from where they sat, intertwined in a pool of silver. Golden and pearl-white fur swirled as one as the two creatures slept, so much that where the two forms met their shapes became one.

            _Jaime_. Sansa traced the lion’s shape, let the silk run beneath her finger. A dark spotch above the lion’s shaggy mane bloomed in the silver _My Jaime._

* * *

 

 

By the time Winterfell came into view, night had fallen, and the outer walls’ flickering lights guided her through the trees. After her fight with Rickon and the near-miss with the seamstress, Sansa had fled the castle on her pale grey mare, galloping through half-frozen fields and weaving her way through the woods until not even the highest towers peaked out above the frost-coated trees. She didn’t know how long she’d been out, only that by the time the gate groaned in greeting, Winterfell’s courtyard was deserted, and only servants remained in the halls.

            With her mare put away, Sansa began making her way towards her chambers, careful to walk softly across the stones. Just as she reached the tower stairs, a voice called out from the shadows.

            “What are you doing?”

            _Oberyn._ With a sigh, Sansa turned to find her husband leaning leisurely against the wall, arms crossed, a frown stretched across his lips.

            “I took a ride.”

            “At this hour?”

            Sansa frowned. “Is that a problem?”

            Oberyn stepped forward, darkness melting away to reveal his robed form. From his disheveled hair and unruly appearance, Sansa guess he’d been half-asleep before coming down to find her.

            “It is when you spend all day away and don’t even come to bed before sunrise.”

            “ _I_ spend all day away?” Sansa bit back a laugh. “I’m not the one leaving for weeks at a time.”

            “I told you, Sansa, there are preparations to be made for our travels back home—”

            “A home I want no part of!”

            Oberyn’s lips snapped shut, and his eyes glimmered darkly in the light. “If you were ever unhappy with your life in Dorne, Sansa, you only had to say something.”

            At that she truly laughed. _He’s mad_ , she thought to herself. Sansa turned on her heel. She couldn’t bear to even look at him right now. _Mad to think I ever had a choice to wed, to think a life in Dorne is one I chose._ “You wouldn’t understand,” she said softly. “You never do. Not like Ja…” The name dried up on her tongue, but it was too late—she heard Oberyn step closer, and Sansa froze where she stood.  

            Silence fell, taut and thin and fragile. Then Sansa’s breath released. “He would have understood,” she whispered to the darkness. “And now he’s gone.”

“That wasn’t my doing,” Oberyn said, his voice dark and laced with venom.

            She stopped short. “ _Oh_?” Sansa replied, brows raised in disbelief. “Was it not you that told—no, _commanded_ me to wa—”

            Before she could stop him, a hand darted for her wrist, yanking her back around.

            “You would speak of this _now_?” he hissed. Oberyn glanced over his shoulder at a passing servant. The girl promptly scurried out of sight, and he pulled her closer. “With every lord and their servants in Westeros to hear?”

            Sansa’s eyes grew livid, and she struggled to free herself from his grasp. “Let go of me,” she spat, twisting her arm free. Even in the dim light, she could see the pink marks left on her wrist. The sight only breathed fire to the anger boiling in her heart. “After all this time, you still think I’m some pretty fool,” she whispered, rubbing her wrist. “That I’m a stupid child you need to watch over and reprimand. But I am no fool, Oberyn. Not since we wed, not since my hands were first bloodied…not since the act you’re still too scared to speak of—the act that _we_ committed—went down.” She dropped her arm and met his eyes, daring him to speak.

            For a minute silence rang in the corridor, cool as the stare they now shared. His hand twitched, and for a second Sansa thought he might strike her. But then his shoulders slumped, and weariness replaced the cold within his eyes. “Sansa…”

            She raised a hand to stop him. _Coward_ , she wanted to scream. _Coward. He’s gone because of me_ and _you. He’s gone and thousands more died because of us_. But she couldn’t say that—not within the confines of their bedchamber, not within the confines of their home. The past was over, but its ghost remained, and its hands held them both in an iron grasp.

            “I’m tired, Oberyn,” Sansa said instead. Her arm dropped wearily to her side. “Let’s just go to bed,” she said in defeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long wait, but here you finally go! Even though this story can't be as updated as regularly as part I, I would still love to hear your thoughts on it. Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter Five

            Jaime had just opened his eyes when the first bucketful struck him in the face.

            “What in Seven Hells—”

            _Splash._ Jaime roared in protest at the second assault, struggling against his tangled blanket.

            “Get up, Lannister.”

            He blinked, looking around the dim room. _Where…_? Jaime’s eyes fell upon the dark-haired girl standing at the end of his cot, a third bucket propped up on her hip. She regarded him haughtily, tilted her head, then set the bucket down. _Oh, right_ , he groaned inwardly, memories of the previous night flooding in. _The wench found us a ship._ Just _why_ they needed a ship was still a mystery, though.

            “Go away,” he muttered, falling back against the lumpy mattress. “It’s too early for this, not without…”

            “Without wine?” The girl jutted her chin to his bedside table, and Jaime’s eyes followed to the jug sitting there.

            He muttered his thanks, sitting up and reaching for the pitcher. Just as his fingers grasped the cool metal handle, there was a loud rustling, and a blinding stream of sunlight filled the room. Jaime shielded his eyes. “What was that for?” he said angrily, taking a hard swallow.

            The girl ignored him and sat at the foot of the bed. Steel-grey eyes regarded him beneath heavy lashes, and a feeling of unease settled in his stomach. He set the jug back down.

            “Do you know who I am?” she asked.

            He let out a short laugh. “I don’t even know who _I_ am.”

            Her gaze flickered to his lap, where his stump sat, exposed and pink. It travelled up, passing over the fresher scar stretched taut across his neck, half-hidden behind his overgrown beard and hair. “You are Ser Jaime Lannister, former captain of the Kingsguard. Brother to Cersei Lannister and father of her children, sellsword for five years…and lover of Sansa Stark.”

            Jaime’s breath hitched at the name. _She couldn’t possibly…_ His eyes lifted, meeting her unwavering gaze. Steel-grey stared back, steel-grey that was so different and yet so similar…

            “You’re her sister. Arya Stark.” A wave of confusion washed over him. “But Arya Stark died,” he whispered, shaking his head. “And Sansa Stark might have as well.” Jaime lurched to his feet. Head swimming, blood pumping through his veins. A sour taste rose in his throat.

            “Lannister…”

            “I wasn’t thinking clearly last night when I agreed to—what exactly did I agree to?” he demanded, turning back to face her.

            “I was _getting_ to that, so if you’d just sit down—”

            “No,” he spit back. “I don’t know who you are, and I don’t _care_ , girl. I’m getting off this damn ship.” And with that Jaime pushed past her, flinging open the wooden door with a _bang!_ Down a narrow corridor, up a crooked staircase, and through a tight upper room he went until he emerged above deck. Salted air greeted him, as did the salted sea.

            Everywhere he looked, his gaze was met with that of greenish water, mocking him with its lazy waves. There was not so much as a rock in sight. Hurried men pushed past him, turned him around, made him stumble into a crate. Jaime caught himself, but with his right arm, and a stab of pain shot up the limb. The strange crew laughed in a foreign tongue. Cursing, Jaime spun back around to see the dark-haired girl observing him calmly from the stairwell.

            He cursed the Gods for good measure, then followed her back below.

 

* * *

 

 

            The girl leaned back against the cabin wall, waiting.

            “You’re Arya Stark.”

            “Yes.”

            “You died.”

            She smirked. “Not quite.”

            “My men searched for you everywhere. I had Goldcloaks all over the Riverlands.”

            The girl shrugged. “They sought a little high-born girl, not a dirt-streaked peasant boy. I did meet your father once, though, in Harrenhal. Poured the prick wine, cut his meat.” She smirked again. “Look at the great lions of Lannister now.”

            “If you hate my family so much, then what do you want with me?”

            A strand of dark hair fell across her cheek, giving her a look of innocence that seemed foreign on her face. Her smile faltered. “I admit that at one time your name was on my list, but now…” she paused, meeting his eye. “We may be very different, Lannister, but there is one thing we both care for…even if it does not seem so anymore.”

            _Sansa._

            She nodded, though he hadn’t said a word. “People like me…we live in the shadows. Watching, listening, waiting. I know I shouldn’t intervene, but when I heard her name—heard _Sansa’s_ name—I had to do something.”

            Jaime’s brows knotted. “Why would a Braavosi speak of her?”

            “It’s not the first time talk of Westeros has reached these shores. Tales of foreign princesses will fall easily from a sailor’s drunken tongue. But what I overheard this time was no tale, Lannister.”

            “Well? What was it?”

            Arya fidgeted with the blade hung from her hip, rolling the sheathed point between her fingers. “Your queen was in Braavos not even a fortnight ago. She… _discussed_ things with the men I work for.”

            “Daenerys Targaryen?” Jaime frowned. Though he’d been gone from his homeland for years, news of the Targaryen rule was not difficult to find. She’d crowned her once-thought dead nephew Aegon shortly after the war, and had taken him as her husband. Rumors of their tense marriage had travelled quickly across the sea, though nothing new had come up in years. “Why would she be _here_ , when she has a whole kingdom to rebuild?”

            The girl’s fingers paused, and she met Jaime’s eyes. “The queen wants her dead, Lannister. She wants Sansa dead. _That’s_ what she came to Braavos to discuss.”

            For a second time that morning, Jaime’s head began to swim. Memories of years ago passed through his mind— _they had been friends,_ he thought, confused. _The dragon queen loved Sansa…didn’t she?_ He tried to recall, but only Sansa’s face swam forward, pink-cheeked and lovely. _Help me, Jaime_ , her voice whispered in his mind. _Help me. Please._

“ _Lannister_.”

            Jaime’s eyes snapped up—he blinked, unclenched his fist. “Dead?” he whispered, suddenly finding it hard to speak. “Why…?”

            Arya shrugged. “I don’t know. I could only listen for a moment before…before someone discovered me. But that’s what I heard. Daenerys Targaryen wants my sister dead.”

            _Dead._ The word sent a dagger to his heart. After all they’d been through, even _after_ what she’d done all those years ago… _Dead._ Jaime closed his eyes, let a breath escape his lungs.

            “And you need my help?”

            “I can’t do it alone, Lannister.”

            “Well…” Jaime opened his eyes. “I suppose I’m heading back to Westeros.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that I've taken so long to update. College really does keep you busy! Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and please let me know what you thought. Thanks!


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